


Details matter

by highfunctioningsupersoldiersociopath



Series: Even the smallest details matter [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highfunctioningsupersoldiersociopath/pseuds/highfunctioningsupersoldiersociopath
Summary: You are sent on a death mission, so you take your time noticing the finer details.





	1. Part One

The tunnel you crept through, careful not to make any noise in case it echoed, was dark and dank, the only illumination coming from candles set at unequal distances along the painted brick wall that flickered haphazardly, threatening to extinguish themselves and plunge you into complete darkness.

It gave you the impression that it had once been used during the war, the images of people long gone drifted through your mind like a reel of film suddenly coming to life, and for a second you could hear the hustle and bustle of agents and military personnel planning and researching and squabbling about whether or not they were going to have to lose the next battle to win the war. It sent a pang to your heart, wishing you could have been there to experience the atmosphere properly. There would have been electricity running through this place then, too, not these crappy candles that look like they’re on their last legs. You followed a man in an expensive looking pinstripe suit through the tunnel until he disappeared around a corner, visions of the past mixing neatly with the present, making sure you were careful not to step in any rancid puddles lingering and hugging the wall where the moisture had collected over the years.

There were also patches dotted along both sides where the paint had been chipped and flaked away creating a shattered mirror image on the concrete below; it crackled slightly when you stepped through a patch startling you with your ears straining for anything in the dense silence.

Coming to a T-junction, you peered your head around a chipped away corner to check there weren’t any guards milling about, brick dust staining your fingers. There was no one. If you were anyone else, you would have thought the place abandoned, but you weren’t anyone, not when there were faint voices murmuring through your earpiece, giving constant updates about the whereabouts of the heat signatures located in a room just off the next corridor; not when you had been given specific instructions to kill the two males and then bring what they were working on back to your superiors; not when you knew exactly who they were, given the location they had chosen.

The sentiments of nostalgia made your stomach roil and you focused on the way the ground was slightly uneven in this part of the tunnel, rising and falling acutely in a fashion that reminded you of a child’s roller coaster. There were electric lights now lining the walls, a dim glow from age and being untouched for almost a century, there was a film of grime coating the surface of the plastic covers, lengthening the shadows until they merged into a complex darkness that could hold all sort of dirty secrets.

As you edged closer, you began to hear their voices. Strong American accents, deep timbres reverberating through the halls like ocean waves of a tsunami crashing and folding against the buildings as it fought its way across the land. The arched roof of this main tunnel was full of dusty spider’s webs, tangled together throughout the decades, generation after generation of spiders creating their home in the stillness that still lingered like a starving alley cat desperate for more food from the trash can. It felt like forcing your way through a pit of foam blocks only to find they became denser the further you went until you were faced with a solid wall that prevented you from making any progress.

Luckily, though, the foam was none of your concern as it was merely a metaphor so with breathing regulated into deep even puffs into the cool stale air, pulse beating steadily in your ears, you closed in on your prey.


	2. Part Two

The weight of the gun holstered at your hip was grounding as you approached a thick door of mahogany coloured wood, brass handle worn with use, a window of frosted glass yellowed by the light from inside. There was a faint inscription on the window, faded, but still legible. Not in a language you knew, unfortunately. You briefly wondered if you could quietly sneak in, but there would be at least one of them facing the door if they were standing at a table positioned in the centre of the room.

This was it: if they hadn’t heard you approaching before, they were about to now. Taking a final measured breath, you silently opened the door, your other hand hovering over your weapons belt that hung comfortably around your hips.

They looked up immediately, both on high alert, the movement catching their attention. The one with long brown hair - it looked soft to the touch, as if he had washed it recently - took a sharp inhalation of breath.

“Buck, do you know who this is?” The blond man questioned almost tentatively as he moved behind a table made of the same thick wood as the door. There were papers scattered over its surface but any visible wood had scratches and dents blemishing it, making you speculate, only momentarily, about what the purpose of this room had once been.

“I recognise them, they were part of a different programme in Hydra but we occasionally worked together.” He explained, but the words were foreign to your ears.

He made a reach for a pistol stashed away, the action drawing your attention to your own weapons. Reaching for your own revolver was an easy move, autonomic even, and you went straight for the head shot, preferring not to waste your energy, but they were also quick, the brunette now on the defensive, shielding himself with his arm - metal. You made a mental note to be careful of ricochets.

They had alarming accuracy, but yours was better, as you hit their shoulders with several of the throwing knives you had on you, deciding not to waste your rounds. The blond man looked surprised, paused mid-action in barely contained astonishment before it was replaced by the expressionless face of a soldier on the battlefield. He left the knife in his shoulder as he reached for something you couldn’t see on the other side of the table, bringing it before him. Of course, you’d been warned about the blond’s shield; a symbol of America that was just as dangerous as the other’s metal prosthesis. Both weapons glinted duly in the poor lighting.

The other knife you’d thrown hadn’t landed on target. Well, it had, but you’d forgotten his metal arm went up to his shoulder; it had simply deflected off and clattered to the floor. He had already looked annoyed, but now he was absolutely fuming: movements calculated and precise as he moved towards you as the other started to gather up what they had been working on, shoving it into a file. He was in front of you in a matter of seconds, your two bodies moving back and forth as you danced, dodging and deflecting, parrying and countering; seamless offence and defence.

One wrong move on your part and he was able to catch you in a headlock, forcing the air out of you like a child squeezing a balloon to see when it’ll burst. You managed to struggle against him until you had backed him up against the wall. His grip on you faltered as the force of the hit winded him and he let out an irrepressible “Oof” that gave you the chance to spin and send a blow to his solar plexus, falling back on basic self-defence.

The sound of the Captain’s shield flying through the still air gave you little notice that you would be knocked in the side. If he had thrown it any harder, it would have sliced you clean in half. As it was, your protective gear did little to prevent the agony of the internal bleeding you knew would now be showing on the surface of your skin as a vibrant purple bruise. The force of the blow was enough to knock you to the ground and you berated yourself for solely focusing on one of them when you were clearly outnumbered. The floor was cool against your back and it soothed your mind into forming coherent trains of thoughts.

Only too late you realised this had been a death mission, a warning to the soldiers. The metal armed man was now standing above you, looking like a giant, out of proportion in this grimy little room littered with miscellaneous papers that suddenly held no interest to you as you resignedly accepted your fate.

“I’m so sorry, Y/n.” His familiar deep tone was the last thing you heard and piercing steely blue eyes the last thing you saw before the yellow lights suddenly disappeared and you let go of consciousness.


End file.
